


Three Mistakes That Drumknott Made

by Ololon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boring day turns rather exciting when an assassin invades the Palace…and the usually infallible Drumknott makes a series of mistakes he is desperate to put right.<br/>Spoilers: Nothing in particular, although consider it post The Truth<br/>Disclaimers: I don’t own them, and I’ve been very naughty with them. I’m not sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am mean to Drumknott in this story. I have three D/V stories that have been boiling away for months and months and I’m mean to him in all of them. Also my setup is a shamless cliché. I’m sorry. A bit.

 

** Chapter 1  **

 

It had been an otherwise nondescript day; the occasional meeting interspersed with the usual mountain of paperwork, which Drumknott was still happily chewing through at 6pm, like an enthusiastic slug in a bed of lettuce. The grey cloud outside had finally matured into rain, which was now drumming down insistently on the windows in the autumn darkness, providing a pleasant accompaniment to the shuffling of paper and scratching of pens. There was no indication that it was going to continue as anything other than ordinary and routine.

 

Drumknott was currently at what he thought of as his secondary desk; his primary one was in his own office next door, but a smaller one sat alongside the window in the Oblong Office itself, for when he was working more closely with the Patrician, or, he sometimes suspected, because it was a little more companionable that way – at least for him – and the Patrician, whilst inclined to spells of solitary contemplation, was otherwise generally accepting of his presence. He spent more time at his secondary desk than his primary one, these days. (He was considering re-numbering them, but didn’t want to rush into the decision). Holding that thought, he glanced up briefly; Lord Vetinari was studying reports detailing the trade relations with Quirm, making notes every so often in an elegant hand. Probably Drumknott would be collating those notes, later. He returned his attention to his own work, feeling a familiar sense of contentment settle somewhere in his chest, almost like the warm comfort of home, almost as if it could become…He firmly curtailed that thought before it could have offspring thoughts that would turn hormonal and rebellious if allowed to grow up a bit, and cause all sorts of trouble. _Settle for the contentment_ , he told himself, _and temper the longing_. _It’s more than enough. It’s more than you’ve ever had._ He signed off on the finished report, then stood and walked round to the Patrician’s side for him to sign it, thinking, as he did so, that he used to stand in front of the desk and pass it across, and was unable to remember when he’d stopped doing that. Vetinari gave the completed report a cursory glance then signed with a flourish and handed it back without a word. _He_ almost certainly remembered, but he’d never said anything. Drumknott turned to walk back to his desk.

Had he taken but a few seconds longer to finish his report, or even been a minute or two faster and already returned to his chair, then the nondescript day would have become exciting in a slightly different way and he may never have made the mistakes that he was about to make. In another trouserleg of time, he didn’t make any mistakes at all whilst somebody else made a large, fatal mistake instead – and in yet another, no mistakes were made by anybody, but everything somehow turned out badly. At any rate, it was probably just as well he hadn’t been sitting at his desk when the Klatchian assassin smashed melodramatically through the window, swinging in on a length of rope and landing broad-stancedon the polished wood surface, his face masked and curved daggers brandished in both hands.

 

_My desk!_ Drumknott had time to think, indignantly, seeing papers scatter to the floor and raindrops spatter all over the surface, but in the next instant certain more pressing issues were at the forefront of his mind as the assassin leapt forward, with deadly inevitability, straight for Lord Vetinari. His heart lurched and he bodily threw himself up to intercept the assassin without even thinking what a terribly stupid thing to do that was, and for a multitude of reasons – many of which concerned his lack of Assassin (or even plain assassin) training, armour, weaponry or resistance to sharp objects – but mostly because Vetinari had moved faster than either of them. A vice-like grip on his right upper arm yanked him sideways and he only partially collided with the Klatchian. There was a confusing crunch of bodies, a yell from somewhere and a sharp punch to his side and then somehow he was lying on the floor with the ceiling wobbling disturbingly about him. He tried to sit up and such a stab of pain went through him that his vision blacked out for a moment.

 

“Sir!” he cried out, distraught, struggling to hold onto consciousness.

 

“Do _not_ move,” Vetinari’s voice floated in from somewhere, in a very severe tone that had _Disobey Me And Prepare to Make Friends with Scorpions_ written all over it. There was a pressure on his left side and the sharp pain escalated so suddenly and severely that he passed out completely.

*           *           *

As the stunning pain abated down to mere throbbing agony, he became dimly aware of being aware again, and then of voices speaking urgently around him, and an odd gurgling sound in the background.

 

“…leapt straight between us…”

 

“…Did _what?_ I’ll be damned…”

 

“…unable to remove him from harm’s way in time…”

 

“Sir?” he tried again; his own voice sounded to him as though it were coming through cotton wool.

 

“Do lie still, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari replied, sounding far more clear than he himself did, somehow. He was so relieved to hear the Patrician’s voice, his normal, not-sounding-stabbed voice, that he almost passed out again. With an effort, he opened his eyes and focussed as best he could. His glasses must have been knocked off, he realised, muzzily, because everything was remaining stubbornly blurry. Vetinari’s face suddenly loomed into focus above his own, rather alarmingly close. He was kneeling beside him, he realised, vaguely, squinting downwards to see both long-fingered hands pressing an unrecognisable wad of blood-soaked cloth to his left side. This time, the ceiling stayed still and it was his brain that went wobbly.

 

“Stay with me,” Vetinari said, firmly, and it certainly sounded like an order, so he struggled to obey, although a large part of him was in uncharacteristic disagreement with that idea. “Drumknott!” His eyes, at least, snapped back open. “Drumknott, look at me.” He did so, rather desperately. The Patrician looked…annoyed. Oh dear. “Corporal did you find it?” A blob appeared and held something out. He was pretty sure it must be a person. He was reasonably confident that he would have noticed if there were blobs employed at the Palace now. There would have been a memo, surely. “Take over,” Vetinari continued, and there was a shift in the pressure on his side that nearly sent him under again, then a needle-prick in his arm, and in a few moments more everything was muted, as though a thick door had been shut between him and the pain, and almost everything else. Voices floated in and out like breezes, and the only other things he was aware of were that strange gurgling, bubbling noise (which he had a horrible feeling might be coming from _himself_ ),the frantic laboring of his heart, and Lord Vetinari still crouched beside him, his hands now supporting his head. They felt blissfully warm against the strange, deep chill of his body.

 

“…Through the window?! That’s some climb. How the hell…?” That was Commander Vimes, he realised, with a bit of a shock. Maybe he had passed out longer than he thought.

 

“…This way please, Dr Lawn…”

 

“…Igor’s on his way too…”

 

“…Thought that particular terrorist group had all been caught, sir…”

 

“….False identity…”

_I’m cold,_ he thought, rather piteously, and, in the next moment, as though he’d spoken aloud, a heavy cloak had been draped over him. It smelt reassuringly familiar.

 

“Are you hurt sir?” he managed to ask, but there was no answer, and he was distracted by someone else prodding at him. He couldn’t tell where Vetinari was.

 

“…Going into shock…”

 

“…nothing I can do…a few minutes left to live…” That jolted him back to more alertness with a terrible fear.

 

“Sir!” he cried out, struggling.

 

“Hush, you must be still,” Vetinari was back again, by his side; Drumknott realised his head was somehow in his lap, and wondered if it always had been or if the Patrician had handed him over to someone else as he’d thought. It was all too late anyway. A few minutes, and he’d never…

 

“Sir,” he croaked, beyond caring if it made him sound utterly pathetic, “Please don’t leave me.”

 

“I’m right here, Drumknott,” came the comforting reply, “Just try and stay calm and still. You’ll be all right.” _He must have thought I didn’t hear_ , Drumknott realised, he’s trying…he’s actually trying to be kind. _Oh god, I really **am** going to die_. He flailed around vaguely with his right hand and was rewarded (or indulged, perhaps more accurately) when it was caught and held, quite gently. He tried attaining sight again. His eyes were wet with tears, and he blinked rapidly, straining his neck round to see. A skeletal foot stepped down right next to his head. Vision had been a mistake.

 

EXCUSE ME. TERRIBLY CROWDED IN HERE.

 

He snapped his head back, and refocussed on the Patrician.

 

“Sir,” he whispered, at the end of his strength. Vetinari leaned close over him, close enough that he could feel his breath when he spoke.

 

“You probably shouldn’t talk, Rufus,” he murmured. Oh, his first name, that was nice (He was _definitely_ going to die).Was it him, or was his brain getting fuzzier? Shouldn’t have blocked the assassin’s path, what had he been thinking? The Patrician could easily have handled him and he’d just got in the way.

 

“Stupid mistake,” he muttered, hopelessly, and, like a lot of stupid mistakes, it was going to be fatal one.

 

“Rufus?” Vetinari asked, sounding faintly perplexed. The persistent gurgling finally stopped, and he shuddered as an icy chill went through him. He was pretty sure that was a bad sign. He tried to speak. Vetinari leaned closer, one hand on his cheek, and said his name again. At least, he thought so, he couldn’t hear it. Vetinari had a sort of lopsided half-smile on his face, probably trying to be reassuring, but there was the faintest concerned frown beginning to appear. No more time, and his last chance, it wasn’t fair but he couldn’t…he had no breath to _tell_ him, so he reached up his free hand and somehow managed to plant it on the Patrician’s face, a piece of temerity, but one he could probably get away with, just this one time. The crooked smile flickered again, and Vetinari opened his mouth to say something. With a supreme effort of will, Drumknott raised his head and kissed him, upside down, admittedly, but square on the lips, then sagged back, exhausted, but at least at peace.

 

“Bloody hell!” said someone. He seemed to drift away from his body, until the last thing he was aware of were Vetinari’s hands still cradling his head, and the last thing he heard, as the blackness surged over him, was Vetinari calmly saying,

 

“Commander, would you please recover your cigar from the carpet before it sets fire to the place?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next thing Drumknott heard was the sound of angel’s wings, which, because he was, at heart, a practical man, he corrected to the sound of rustling paper. Hmm, perhaps heaven was a giant filing cabinet after all, and each little soul was like a little file looking for its rightful place – or he was drousy on painkillers, and the billowy softness around him was pillows and blankets. And he’d made not one mistake, but several…

 

He opened his eyelids, just a crack. Yes, he was in his own bedroom, securely and warmly wrapped up. The curtains were drawn, the fire was burning merrily away, and the room was cosily lit by the lamp on his tertiary desk, his _personal_ desk, at which – his heart lurched – the Patrician was sitting, idly thumbing through some papers, his long legs stretched out so that his booted feet, crossed casually at the ankles, projected out the other side. His right arm was bandaged from elbow to wrist. Drumknott shut his eyes again, trying to get a grip on himself, whilst another part of his brain that was glad to be getting on with business as usual again after that all that ridiculously overblown near-death stuff, automatically started tallying:

 

Item #1: Mistake; blocking path of assassin

Item #2: Mistake; assuming imminent death

Item #3: Mistake; kissing….oh _gods_ …kissing _Lord Vetinari_ …

 …In fact, make that:

Item #4: Mistake; …in front of everybody. Or at least an everybody with a large subset of Vimes in it.

 

All things considered, dying of being stabbed would have saved him the trouble of now having to die of embarrassment. He wondered what the Patrician would do; fire him? Politely pretend it didn’t happen? Kill him? Well, probably not. He’d have to do all the dying of embarrassment the hard way. Given that the man himself was here…he was probably in for what promised to be an excruciatingly awkward conversation. His side was starting to throb again, and he had to shift slightly, which made it hurt even more, and his breath hissed out between his teeth.

 

“Drumknott?” Vetinari queried, instantly alert. He felt obliged to open his eyes.

 

“Yes, sir,” he managed, pulling himself up with an effort so he could sit a little more upright. Small red commas swam briefly in his vision like particularly devilish tadpoles.

 

“Don’t move around too much,” Vetinari cautioned him. “You don’t want to open up the stitches. Do you want some more analgesic?”

 

“Maybe…in a little bit,” he said, not wanting to lose what sorry remnant of his wits remained. “Sir…why are you here?” Oh rats, he hadn’t meant to ask that at all, and it was bordering on insolent, at that.

 

“Drumknott,” Vetinari said, in his Reasonable tone, “You asked me to stay with you.” He was _not_ going to read anything into that. He was _not._

 

“But I must have been unconscious for ages.” Gods; it was dark outside again, it could have been a whole day, maybe even more.

 

“About four hours, actually, and, technically, mostly sleeping,” Vetinari informed him, almost conversationally, “Dr Lawn thought it inadvisable for you to be left alone.” He cocked his head to one side, “Given that it is now approaching midnight, you might quite reasonably go back to sleep.” Four hours, was that all? He’d thought he was _dying._

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he began, starting with mistake number one, “I shouldn’t have got in the way.”

 

“No, you shouldn’t,” Vetinari replied, quite calmly, “I nearly took your head off, to say nothing of what our unexpected visitor did to your side, which should heal nicely, by the way.” Not only had he got in the way, he was pretty sure that he was only alive because Vetinari had pulled him _out_ of the way. The Patrician got up, leaning just a little more heavily on his cane than usual – hardly surprising, he thought dismally – and reseated himself in the bedside chair, then poured Drumknott the glass of water he was just becoming aware that he wanted. He took it in a shaking hand, getting a good view of the Patrician’s bandaged forearm.

 

“Your arm…” he began, becoming progressively distressed.

 

“Will be fine,” Vetinari dismissed it. He shifted a little in the chair. “I would not have considered you a man prone to such an act of rash heroism, Mr Drumknott.”

 

“It was a surprise to me too, sir.” He’d meant it to sound urbane, but it just came out miserable. He wasn’t looking at the Patrician anymore, being too determined to stare at the pattern on his blanket, but he could _feel_ Vetinari’s eyes narrow.

 

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, ever so mildly. _Here we go,_ thought Drumknott, _Nothing for it now._ Nevertheless, he balked at a direct answer.

“I’m sorry for…for making a scene, sir.” He chanced a quick look up, but Vetinari’s expression remained watchfully guarded. “I thought I was going to die,” he tried to explain, aware that he was doing what people always did when the Patrician listened at them; trying to fill up the silence, usually with the sand they’d shovelled out of the hole they were digging themselves into.

 

“I see.” Vetinari’s face shuttered completely, and he was aware, subliminally, that he’d said something wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

 

“The doctor was in fact referring to the assassin, who was beside you,” Vetinari continued, with his usual swift deduction, “I couldn’t make a clean strike from that angle.”

 

“Oh,” was all he managed. He was quite losing the tally of his mistakes, and had to put down the water glass again.

 

“It is only a terrible shame that you were not lucid enough to witness the expression upon Commander Vimes’ face,” Vetinari added, unexpectedly.

 

“Oh _god_. I’m sor - ”

 

“Don’t apologise,” Vetinari cut him off, with a small, private smile, “It was the highlight of my day.” His voice dropped an ominous half-octave. “ _Don’t_ do it again.”

 

“No sir,” he said, automatically. As if there was any chance of that!

 

“The Commander wants a statement from you,” the Patrician added, “I have dissuaded him from sending anyone until tomorrow.” He got up, clearly intending to leave. “I will have someone come and check you over. The doctor informs me that the wound was dangerous primarily because it bled so profusely. I have arranged for a nurse to supervise your care. You should remain convalescent for about a week, in bed for at least the first three days, after which you may only take light work for the next couple of weeks, which I expect you to observe.” It was a clear order, and he nodded dutifully. The Patrician paused briefly by the door, although he didn’t turn back to look at him. “You will have a scar, of course; not the first that you have acquired in my service, I note. Kindly desist from the habit.” What else was there to say?

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Hmm,” was all he got for that, and the Patrician left, closing the door quietly behind him. Drumknott sagged back into the pillows, his hand over his face. Well, it could have been worse. His Lordship hadn’t seemed too terribly vexed with him, and had politely glossed over his…outrageous liberty, was what it was. The unspoken offer was that he was to pick himself up and carry on exactly as they always had, which was a generous and gentlemanly offer, all things considered, and what he thoroughly intended to do, no matter how awkward he would feel at first. He heard the doctor in the corridor outside, which was just as well, because he very much felt like taking a painkiller, going back to sleep and forgetting all about it for the next few hours.

 

He was somewhat alarmed when, instead of the expected member of the medical profession materialising, a rather stocky, well-armoured dwarf stomped in.

 

“Er,” said Drumknott, which he thought rather well covered it, wondering whether said dwarf was male or female and please god _not_ his nurse.

 

“Good evening Mr Drumknott!” the dwarf greeted him, in a cheerful bellow. He had a luxuriant, braided beard, a helmet with a red cross on it, a rather menacing battleaxe hooked through his belt and an even more menacing needle in his hand. “I am Nurse Graniteblood,” the dwarf continued, before he could ask, hauling him up rather unceremoniously against the pillows and prodding at his stitches.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Oh don’t be such a big baby. What a skinny thing you are! We’ll have to feed you up. Lord Vetinari has put me in charge of your care for the next few days.”

 

“You have an axe,” Drumknott felt obliged to point out. He was fairly certain nurses weren't supposed to carry axes.

 

“It’s for cultural reasons,” Graniteblood said stiffly, “Now I suppose you want some more painkiller?” This was asked in a tone that clearly implied a dwarf would consider being stabbed nothing worse than a shaving nick.

 

“Yes please,” he said, meekly, thinking to himself: _You bastard, Lord Vetinari._


	3. Chapter 3

The following day found the pain in his side reduced to a dull, grumbling throb, and only the barely veiled threats of Nurse Graniteblood and the Patrician’s firm orders kept him from adding to his mistake tally and trying to get back to work. He had entirely forgotten that he was supposed to make a statement to the Watch until he heard Commander Vimes’ familiar growling in the corridor outside, before, after a perfunctory knock, he was suddenly standing glowering right in the middle of Drumknott’s bedroom like a particularly sullen piece of mismatched furniture.

 

“Commander, please have a seat,” Drumknott greeted him, civilly enough, although he was resentful of his presence. Why couldn’t he have sent someone else, like Sergeant Angua, or Captain Carrot, or the dim-witted fat sergeant, or even Corporal – well, maybe not Corporal Nobbs. He was still ill, after all. Vimes had better not be here to gloat. The Commander dragged up a chair with a noisy grating sound. _How can he manage that on carpet?_ Drumknott wondered, distractedly.

 

“I won’t be long,” Vimes said, in the same characteristically wooden tone he tended to use in the Oblong Office, “I just need you to go over what happened yesterday for the record.”

 

“I’m sure Lord Vetinari has already accurately supplied all the details you need to know,” said Drumknott smoothly, admittedly to deliberately annoy the Commander. Vimes’ glare didn’t seem to have much heart in it though. Perhaps Drumknott looked more frail than he suspected, or perhaps browbeating bedridden secretaries was against some obscure policeman’s code of honour. He got out his notepad and thumbed to a clean(ish) page expectantly. Drumknott sighed. Best to get this over with as soon as possible.

 

“We were both working in the Oblong Office. Just after 6pm, I went over to hand Lord Vetinari some papers to sign. As I was about to return to my own desk, the assassin smashed through the window and landed on it.” The desk was, possibly, still a sorer point than his side, and he hadn’t even got a chance to look at it yet. It was bound to be scratched all over.

 

“Go on,” said Vimes, as he paused. Drumknott hesitated. Now that he was parsing it again logically in his mind he really couldn’t quite connect his thoughts with his actions. The actions seemed to have happened distressingly by themselves, and Drumknott was not the sort of man that often happened to.

 

“The assassin was armed with some sort of large, curved dagger in each hand and his face was covered,” he said, sticking to the easy facts first, “Obviously, he was there to attack the Patrician. I could see him getting ready to leap towards him and so I…tried to stop him.”

 

“You tried to stop him,” Vimes repeated slowly, as if to demonstrate its absurdity.

 

“Yes I tried to stop him,” Drumknott repeated testily. He drew a breath. “I cannot say exactly what happened next.”

 

“Very fast was it? Bit of a blur?” Drumknott glared.

 

“ _Yes,_ it was. I somehow collided with the assassin as he jumped off my desk, but Lord Vetinari pulled me to one side, and I assume, er, dealt with him. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, I was in pain and there was a lot of commotion going on about me.” He watched as Vimes studiously wrote _commotion_ in his notebook, and made a mental note to suggest to A.E Pessimal that he teach the Watch shorthand.

 

“Huh,” the Commander grunted, “I don’t get it. You’re a sensible man, Mr Drumknott.” _Sensible._ Yes, he knew that. It had been written on every school report since he was five. It was what everybody said because they couldn’t remember anything else about him. “What led you to think that becoming the paste in an assassin sandwich was a good idea?” He took a measured breath.

 

“Clearly I did not think,” he replied calmly, deciding to try dissembly by frankness, “Apart from the fact that there was hardly time to, I acted on instinct to try and prevent someone getting hurt. The Patrician was, so far as I know, still seated when the assassin came through the window, and moreover is slightly lame, putting him at a disadvantage. I was on my feet. In addition, whilst I am of course aware of Lord Vetinari’s training, his skills are not something I have personally witnessed, and I was entirely unaware as to their extent. In our everyday interactions, I only see the Patrician, who ordinarily does not deal with anything sharper than a quill pen and a few unwise tongues.” He was quite proud of that; a series of perfectly reasonable, truthful statements that added up to a politician’s lie. You didn’t spend that much time around Vetinari without learning a trick or two, after all.

 

“You unthinkingly jumped in the way to protect someone you…care about.” And there were policeman’s truths, as well.

 

“Are you saying that you would not have done the same in my position?” Vimes had of course done very nearly the same thing, with Lupine Wonse, some time ago, and they both knew it. He returned Drumknott’s look with a measured one of his own.

 

“Do you have any more information about the assassin?” he asked, deciding to press his advantage. Vimes smiled nastily.

 

“I am keeping Lord Vetinari apprised of all developments in the case, of course,” he said.

 

“Of course.” Well, he’d asked for that one. He waited. Vimes wasn’t saying anything more but he was emphatically not leaving either. “Do you need anything else Commander?” he asked, with pointed politeness, whilst trying to project _Go Away_ as strongly as possible, “I would like to rest a little now.” Vimes fidgeted, with a soft clink of armour, and thumbed absently through his notebook without looking at the pages. It was a notebook that suffered cruelly from Vimes’ thumb, Drumknott couldn’t help but notice.

 

“I still can’t quite believe you had the nerve,” he said at last, “That _anyone_ would…dare.” Drumknott had really had enough by this point.

 

“As I said, it was rather instinctive…”

 

“You bloody _kissed_ Vetinari!” Vimes interrupted, and Drumknott bit back a rude retort. The Patrician had had the grace not to mention it, but not, apparently, his Grace. Vimes subsided, however, and, incredibly, did that staring at the wall thing he usually did when in the Patrician’s presence, leaving Drumknott utterly bemused.

 

“Should have seen his face,” he said at last, in a tone of such gruffness it could only be the result of sincere awkwardness, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so genuinely surprised. Like a beggar child given a rocking horse for Hogswatch. Just for a moment. If you happened to be looking.” _What?_  managed Drumknott’s brain, blindsided a little. Vimes abruptly got up almost as noisily as he had sat down.

 

“Well I guess that covers it so I’ll let you get your rest.” He briefly met Drumknott’s eye again. “Kindly try not to get yourself turned into clerk kebab again,” he added, still in that gruff tone, “His Lordship was what you might call most severely displeased.”

 

Drumknott sagged back into the pillows, but hardly had time to think or even close his eyes before the door banged loudly open again and a tub of steaming water with short, stocky legs barged in. _That wretched painkiller_ , he thought, before the image resolved itself into something more rational in the form of Nurse Graniteblood, wearing a quite appalling apron apparently fashioned out of leather. He looked like a dwarf butcher.

 

“Right! Time for a spongebath Mr Drumknott! Got to keep that wound clean, hygiene is very important.”

 

“Oh just kill me and put me out of my misery please,” he mumbled. Nurse Graniteblood set down the tub with a quite unseemly clang and stared at him, thoughtfully thumbing his beard.

 

“Well in cases we can’t do much about there is always the option of an honorable, as I believe you humans say, Coop de Grass,” – here he tapped his axe meaningfully in a way that made Drumknott’s throat go quite dry – then the cheery tone was instantly back again, “But you’re going to be perfectly all right, Mr Drumknott, do not _worry_ so, it’s bad for the blood pressure.” He set about pulling the sheets off and whipping Drumknott’s nightshirt over his head before he could voice a protest.

 

“I just don’t…” Drumknott began, helplessly, as the Nurse began peering critically at his naked body, rather like a farmer sizing up an unlikely looking cow at the market, he couldn’t help but think, “Oh never mind.”

 

“Aha!” Graniteblood said suddenly, with a sly glance, “I think I know what is bothering _you_ Mr Drumknott,” _I’m fairly sure you don’t,_ Drumknott thought, wryly, eventually surrendering himself to the process. “You are worried that your wound will affect your functioning as a man.”

 

Drumknott fell back on “Er.”

 

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” the Nurse continued jovially, vigorously scrubbing around the area in question, “We nurses are Unshockable, and we take an oath of strictest confidence. Anyway, the wound is nowhere near there and if you’re not feeling your usual vigorous self yet it’s just the blood loss. You’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

 

“Oh jolly good,” he said, weakly, wondering if this was the first time anyone had ever applied the term ‘vigorous’ to him, howsoever theoretically.

 

“Although you really need to eat more, you’re all skin and bones, how do you expect to attract yourself a mate looking like an underfed pup? No offence.”

 

“None taken.”

 

“And try growing a beard. Make a man of you!”

 

“Thanks for the advice.” At this rate, he’d have one too: he’d not had the nerve to ask Graniteblood for a shave – he might use the axe.

 

“Any time! Now let’s get you turned over and do the other side.” __


	4. Chapter 4

Three days passed under the watchful glare of Nurse Graniteblood, and he finally started making slow, stiff turns about his room, initially more or less using the dwarf as a crutch, but, after a bit of practice, he could do it under his own power.

 

“You’ll do,” the nurse said, giving a critical look at the healing wound revealed by the newly-removed bandages.

 

“I can go back to work?” he asked, hopefully.

 

“Not quite yet. Give it a few more days. You don’t want to go pulling it open again. But I’m done anyway, you can manage on your own from here. I’ll be back to remove the stitches in a couple of days, but that should do it.” He gave a curt nod.

 

“Oh, well, thank you.” Drumknott felt that something more should be said, and added, diffidently, “I suppose you are going back to Dr Lawn’s practice?”

 

“Initially yes, but I’ve got my mind lined up for some advanced training, now that I’ve had some experience of all the different areas of nursing.”

 

“Oh, what are you planning to specialise in?”

 

“Midwifery,” Graniteblood replied, promptly, and then, incredibly, he went slightly misty-eyed, “Nothing quite like ushering a new life into the world, that’s what I say.” Visions of Nurse Graniteblood unceremoniously yanking out some squalling newborn and severing the umbilical cord with his axe paraded themselves in front of Drumknott’s eyes.

 

“Um, yes, well…I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.” Graniteblood beamed, and Drumknott offered up silent apologies to the women of Ankh-Morpork.

 

“So long then, Mr Drumknott,” the dwarf said, picking up his things in the usual businesslike manner. “Oh, and if you’re going to tackle any assassins again, wear armour. It was bravely done, lad, but you’re not built like a troll you know.” And then he was gone, hobnail boots tracking loudly down the corridor. Drumknott realised that this was the only time someone had actually praised him for his actions, probably because said actions were incredibly stupid, but still, it was…nice.

 

He soon found he’d almost rather have Graniteblood back; at least it was someone to talk to. He was still confined largely to his sickroom and had little to do but sit and brood over things. The only thing relieving the dreadful tedium and lingering embarrassment (which still made him want to squirm, but for the stitches) were the novels the kitchen staff left him and the gossip he got from the other clerks. They’d brought him chocolates and flowers and begged him to come back to work as soon as possible; apparently they’d resorted to drawing lots as to who got to cover his duties, which secretly pleased him – the Patrician was famously exacting, and he knew that the other clerks tended to view as both inhuman and inhumanly difficult to please. The press was kept out, and a statement issued. He winced at the melodramatic headline in the _Times_ the next day – ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON PATRICIAN – SECRETARY STABBED. Although at least it wasn’t: SECRETARY SNOGS PATRICIAN! Which was what would probably be on the front page of _The Inquirer_ , if they but knew it. A visit from his sister was more welcome; Lord Vetinari had apparently spoken very courteously to her, which pleased but did not surprise him, and he knew Rosie could be counted on not to ask questions or embarrass him.

 

This still left him with endless hours on which to ponder Vimes’ information. There was a big bouquet from the Duke’s wife on his table as well, which was characteristically big-hearted of her, considering they hardly ever exchanged more than a few words at the odd occasion. He was entertained to learn from Clerk Vincent that the Lady Ramkin had apparently paid Lord Vetinari a visit the day following the assassination attempt – “to ‘see if he was all right!’” Vince imparted with glee, as if this was a patently absurd concern, “And then she only went and gave him a big hug and a smack on the cheek! I could hardly keep a straight face! Lord but she’s a lovely woman though.” _That’s probably two unwanted kisses poor Vetinari’s had in less than a week_ , thought Drumknott, but kept it to himself.

 

So far as he knew, news of his indiscretion had not transmitted itself about the Palace, which was just as well, although inevitably Vimes had probably told his wife everything that had happened. _But of course,_ he thought, wondering why he hadn’t realised it before. The Duchess of Ankh had always acted somewhat as if she was Lord Vetinari’s sister (clearly to Vincent’s great hilarity) – well, maybe that was stretching it, but she was Lord – no _Havelock’s_ – _friend_ , and the only one unabashed enough to show it. She was exactly the sort of person who would interest herself in his…wellbeing. She also was far too intelligent to think that Vetinari would be anything other than supremely unbothered by an assassination attempt – unless, perhaps, there was some other reason to disturb his peace of mind.

 

The Patrician, obviously knowing full well how crazy Drumknott would go if kept from his work, brought in papers by the end of the week. It became almost a new routine; an evening cup of tea and a brief chat of the day’s events. But if what Vimes had…had _implied,_ was even slightly true, Vetinari gave no sign of it.

 

 _Well, of course not,_ Drumknott thought, watching the Patrician bid him a courteous evening and depart, leaving a neat stack of files on his personal desk, and a lone, forgotten empty tea mug. If this had been one of those blousy romance stories some of the dreamier members of the kitchen staff seemed so fond of, it would all have been sorted out ages ago, he couldn’t help but think. In fact, given half a chance – and he’d _given_ it one hell of a chance – then his not-actually-dying last breath kiss should have elicited a tearful embrace, a reciprocal, agonised confession, and a joyous union upon his awakening. Or, in a near-tragic twist, his simple wound would have led to a deadly fever, with him tossing upon the bed moaning, whilst the object of his affections poured out his tormented longings in an agony of despair, until he miraculously recovered and happened to overhear. Or, then again, perhaps like some of the slightly more sophisticated tropes, his unwitting mistake in implying that it had only been a fanciful need for comfort brought about by imminent death would have led to hilarious misunderstandings and solutions effected with great comedic elan by various witty co-conspirators. _No such luck,_ he thought morosely: the powers of narrativium probably withered and died when faced with the dreaded raised eyebrow of Lord Vetinari, and Nurse Graniteblood was nobody’s idea of a witty romantic co-conspirator (except possibly his own). Vimes certainly wasn’t. Not to mention that Drumknott himself would be running down to the Watch Office crying, _‘Help! They’ve replaced the Patrician again!’_

The damnable thing was that _he_ had to do something: Vimes had, to his recollection, once rather colourfully referred to the Patrician as ‘a twisty devil without a bone of honour in his body’, but he knew that Lord Vetinari had his own code, after a fashion, which he strongly suspected precluded making romantic overtures to one’s employees. Not to mention the fact that he was simply too closed-off; he would admit of no weakness, no sentiment, no breach in the distance he kept around himself. Not unless he was pushed, and only then, if he considered it worth the concession. But Drumknott himself couldn’t do _anything_ until he was properly healed, and every day momentum was lost as reality returned to normal. For a moment, he toyed with just throwing himself at the man and kissing him again, but had a feeling that wouldn’t go down too well. He swiftly ruled out ‘pretending to faint’ and ‘feigning fever’ in quick succession. Carefully and concisely, he wrote himself a note:

_Memo:_

_(1)_ _Stop taking nurse’s ‘medicinal’ concoctions. Function of mind severely compromised._

_(2)_ _Stop borrowing novels from kitchen staff._

 

And then he set about seriously thinking as to how to correct his most regrettable mistake.

 

Finally, stitches out, and after what felt like a prison sentence, Drumknott was able to return to work, albeit somewhat stiffly. He hesitated outside the Oblong Office the first morning back, feeling unaccountably nervous. After what had happened in that room the last time he was in it…and getting stabbed wasn’t even the worst part of it. But it wouldn’t do to be late, most certainly not, and, more than anything, he had to get back to normal as soon as possible (howsoever much he didn’t want everything to get _too much_ back to normal) and he knew that if he slipped in this, he risked losing the respect that he somehow hadn’t managed to lose when he had – when he was doing things after being stabbed. He took a steadying breath, passing a hand over his (newly clean-shaven) face, gave his customary knock, and entered as usual. The Patrician was already seated at his desk, as he always was.

 

“Good morning Drumknott,” Vetinari said, glancing up briefly from the _Times_ , the same greeting, the same civility in the tone as always.

 

“Good morning, sir,” he responded, exactly as he always did too, and glided over to pour them both their morning tea from the tray the servants had left on the sideboard. There was a new carpet on the floor; well, new to this room anyway. The carpet itself looked very old and comfortably luxurious, in the way that only antique riches can. Presumably the old one was either being cleaned of bloodstains or beyond hope. Usually serving the tea would coincide with a few sentences of small talk before work proper began, although with Vetinari, ‘small talk’ was always a rather qualified statement, but today Drumknott was rather bereft of inspiration. ‘It’s raining again’ seemed a little _too_ cliched on the ‘keep it casual front.’      

 

“I trust that your side is fully recovered?” Then again, perhaps the Patrician wasn’t entirely inspired either.

 

“Thank you, my lord, it is very nearly back to normal. Just the odd twinge now and then.” He really did not want to talk about anything to do with the…stabby incident, and cast about for another source. “Is that new carpet an Agatean design, sir?”

 

“An astute guess, Drumknott. A gift from their ambassador, some seventy-five years ago, I believe. Past time to bring it out in the light again.”

 

“Speaking of which, I see that the window’s been repaired successfully.” Vetinari actually quirked a smile, which Drumknott unfortunately missed, because his attention had been snagged by his desk.

 

“I had a singularly tedious conversation with Commander Vimes about the necessity of bars on the window,” the Patrician remarked, then clearly noted the focus of his secretary’s attention.

 

“Is that..?” Drumknott began.

 

“Ah yes. I’m afraid your other desk is still being repaired. Some of the marquetry was damaged. There seemed a lamentable paucity of suitable replacements, so I took the liberty of bringing in the one from your office for now.” Drumknott swallowed, staring at it.

 

“Good idea, sir.”

 

“It is in any case larger than the old one; it would seem more suitable to have it moved to your office when it is repaired, given the nature of your work habits.” Their eyes met. Drumknott’s heart briefly pounded and he struggled to school his expression to impassivity. The thought occurred to him that he could never hope to outmanoeuvre Vetinari – only the direct approach stood a chance, howsoever dangerous that may be.

 

“I had the same thought, sir.” And they both glanced away again. Vetinari went back to his papers. Drumknott walked back to his desk and sat down carefully. His newly assigned primary desk. He didn’t dare take it as some sort of hint, but at the same time, he was determined that that wasn’t the only thing that was going to change around here. Then he turned his attention back to his work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually split the next part into two chapters, because it was getting stupidly long, although it's a rather arbitrary division, since there seemed no convenient point to stop things once they started, ah, getting going ;) But I am being nice and posting them both at the same time! Also, I couldn't really resist a little cheeky epilogue, although I'm not sure it fits.

A few days later, at what even the Patrician would call an ungodly hour of the night, Drumknott rose from his bed, carefully donned shirt and trousers, lit a candle, and then crept out of his room. A minute later, he crept back in again and put his slippers on, because gentlemen just _didn’t_ parade about barefoot, even on missions of seduction (which he was well aware the slippers detracted from), and besides, the floor was _cold_.

 

He padded softly down corridors half-silvered in moonlight, half-sepulchral in shadow, hearing only his own breathing and feeling the rapid pacing of his heart. It wasn’t far from his room to the Patrician’s, a fact that he’d been  acutely aware of for a long time; out from the corridor containing his suite, down the main thoroughfare on the third floor in the east wing, past three side turnings, and into a fourth, which was lined by ornate candelabra that were seldom lit, and finally to the fifth door, which contained a modest suite he’d only once had a glimpse of. To this day, he had no idea what lay behind the other doors. Sticky ends, probably, and no guarantee for this one either.

 

He paused in front of it. The passageway was that shade of deep blue just above pitch dark, and his single candle was a wan, guttering ghost of light about as strong as his courage. Without his boots, without his proper tunic and only in the loose linen shirt and trousers, he felt almost naked, but with it, it would have been too much as if he’d been dressed for – well, work. With a twist of wry fatalism, he wondered why leaping in front of an assassin was easier than this; it was _thought_ , of course. An action taken on the basis of thought, and the mind knew so much more than the heart, in its thoughtless yearnings, inclined. That and the fact that the assassin in this room was clearly rather more skilled than the one that had landed on his desk. Not to mention that he could be monstrously mistaken about how Vetinari…regarded him. Oh well. In for a penny, as they said…He did not have a key, but he knew that _this_ door was not locked. He reached for the heavy handle, turning it with some effort, and pushed. It swung open with a loud creak of unoiled hinges and he resolutely stepped forward into pitch darkness.

 

He hardly made it a half-step before there was a confused rush of air that snuffed out the candle, an all-too familiar collision of bodies, and something heavy hit with a thump against the door, which shut with a loud, belated click. And locked. He found himself gripped securely with an arm about his chest, his back pressed against his assailant, and with something very cold and very sharp held against his throat. He didn’t say anything, as much because he hadn’t actually thought what to say as because he wanted to avoid any unnecessary neck movements. He was briefly amazed that he had somehow managed to not drop the candle; he was still holding it out in front of him like a particularly ineffectual talisman, but an experimental tense of his muscles revealed that his arms were held as fast as the rest of him. There was an audible sigh, and he felt the faintest of breaths against his ear, which raised all the hairs on the back of his neck.

 

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari’s voice floated out of the darkness somewhere behind his head, stirring his hair slightly, “One might reasonably conclude, at this point, that you actually _enjoyed_ being stabbed.”

 

“Not really, sir,” he managed. The knife hadn’t budged a millimetre.

 

“Hmm. And yet there is no emergency that I am perhaps unaware of, you are not lost and certainly not drunk, and have never demonstrated a propensity for sleepwalking. You are, moreover, a singularly improbable assassin. What do you say?” He took a deep breath, rather carefully.

 

“I think that rather covers all the more unlikely possibilities, my lord.” There was a pause that went on a fraction too long. Another heavy sigh. The knife lifted from his neck, but he was still held fast, and acutely aware of the warmth of the body pressed against his own, the close wintry chill of the room. In the next moment he felt something insinuate itself in the gap between a couple of shirt buttons, just slightly; probing, exploring….as if seeking the pounding of his heart, which felt loud enough for the whole Palace to hear. He swallowed hard, but did not move – and it was _not_ the knife: skin touched skin, a fingertip caress, and a shudder went through him.

 

“I’m not your lord,” Vetinari said at last, in a low voice, “Not in this room. Never in this room.” He dared to nod, not trusting himself to reply. The fingertips withdrew, there was the striking of a match and the candle in his hand flared back to life. He blinked in the sudden light, which seemed dazzling compared to the darkness of before. He was greeted by the reflection of them both in the long mirror of the wardrobe opposite. Off to one side, an inner door led into the bedroom proper, which was still in darkness. Vetinari had only a loose black silk dressing robe on, and nothing at all on his feet. One of his arms was still braced against Drumknott’s chest; the other was draped by his side, holding the stiletto in loose fingers; incongruously casual. He wondered if there was something wrong with him, that he found it strangely erotic. Vetinari’s eyes glittered darkly in the flickering candlelight. He looked – he looked tired, as much as anything, but that only served to make him more watchful.

 

“Mr Drumknott, I am forced to conclude that you are making a rather large mistake,” Vetinari said at last, addressing his reflection as he spoke.

 

“No s – no, Havelock,” marvelling at the steadiness in his voice, and returning that fathomless gaze with all the honesty he knew, “I am trying to correct one. And I am not Mr Drumknott in this room.” The eyes narrowed slightly. He held their gaze, unafraid. Vetinari abruptly dropped his head to his shoulder for a moment, which somehow shocked him more deeply than anything in the most recent weeks.

 

“And can I expect more manifestations of this newly-discovered adventurous streak of yours?” Vetinari spoke into his shoulder, making his beard brush against Drumknott’s neck, which entirely disarranged his thoughts.

 

“I hope that will not be necessary,” he replied, trying to keep his wits about him, and the beard tickled again, briefly; after a moment, he realised that Vetinari had silently laughed.

 

“So how are you to correct this…mistake, Rufus?” Vetinari murmured into his neck. He took a deep breath.

 

“With another kiss. For a start.” That penetrating gaze snapped back up to meet his eyes in the wardrobe mirror again. He wondered what Vetinari saw there. A weakness he couldn’t afford? But the sentiment was already there – _he_ was already there, every day, standing between him and the rest of the world, and they both knew…bars on the window wouldn’t make that any less true. Another thing to deny himself? But it wasn’t only himself he was denying. A young man who didn’t know better? A…mistake? Or perhaps just two lonely, secretive men who worked too hard and knew too much, who complemented each other too well to ignore it. He should have known that, when at last he spoke, it was to say something he hadn’t expected at all.

 

“ _Slippers,_ Rufus? What a treasure you are.” An indignant protest about the temperature of the Palace floors began to form in his mind, but then the knife was suddenly gone, as if magicked away, and the arm across his chest loosened into something of a caress, those fingers working into his shirt again, this time deftly undoing buttons as they went. He dared to move and twisted his head round as much as he was allowed, to finally, awkwardly, claim his kiss. _Upside-down again_ , he thought, whimsically. Vetinari didn’t move until he did, but he did kiss back, this time, softly, almost chastely.

 

“That was much better than I remember,” Drumknott said straightaway upon parting, already forgetting himself. Vetinari’s mouth quirked.

 

“No doubt the experience is enhanced by fully conscious thought.” Drumknott made no reply to that, determined as he was to seize another kiss, the right way up this time, and Vetinari finally allowed him to wriggle free, his shirt quite entirely undone, and let himself be pulled into a hard embrace. Vetinari’s hands came down on his shoulders, pulling him back, deepening the kiss into something altogether less innocent.

 

“Come to bed with me,” Rufus gasped, whilst he still had the nerve.

 

“I think technically _I_ should be asking that, since it’s _my_ bed,” Vetinari replied, amused.

 

“Then I accept,” he replied, promptly.

 

“Dear me, you have got bold,” Vetinari murmured, “Must be all those novels you borrow from the kitchen staff,”

 

“How do you…?” Drumknott began, stupidly, but was distracted as Vetinari started slowly walking him backwards into the bedroom until the back of his knees bumped against the bed. He probably would have fallen back into it – possibly what Havelock intended – but instead he seized the folds of his gown, crumpling high-quality silk in the process, and claimed another kiss, daring to run his hands under the gown, across warm, smooth skin that had a dusting of hair that tapered in a V-shape down the breastbone. He could feel the hardness of Vetinari’s body pressed completely against him, and the sensation was intoxicating. Taking advantage of Havelock’s – probably temporary – passivity, he ducked his head to trace the path of his fingers with his mouth, pushing the gown off the square, bony shoulders and down across arms that – like the rest of the Patrician – seemed to consist of the merest sketch of taut, toned muscle over sweeping bone, an economy of form quintessentially Vetinari. The gown fell obliging to the floor in an inky puddle and he slid to his knees, ignoring a twinge in his side as he did so, and glanced up, for permission, perhaps. But Vetinari stilled him with a hand in his hair.

 

“No,” he said, quietly, strange conflicting expressions racing briefly across his face; he leaned and started to help pull a now-worried Rufus back to his feet. “Not on your knees,” he murmured, clasping his face between his hands and kissing him again, lightly, then drawing them both to sit at the edge of the bed. Rufus heard a couple of suspiciously metallic soft clinks as the Patrician clearly placed something on the side table, but in the next moment forgot them as those deft magician’s fingers whisked his shirt off with alacrity. The trousers followed suit; Rufus had already slid out of the damning slippers.

 

Then Vetinari was kissing him again, one long-fingered hand tangling urgently in the soft waves of his hair, the other pushing him unresistingly down on the bed; his heart sped fit to burst, and he was glad of the dim illumination of the candle, self-conscious under Havelock’s intense, night-darkened gaze. He wasn’t given time to feel truly awkward however, because Vetinari was proceeding with the usual swift determination he exhibited once he’d decided upon a course of action, and he very rapidly found himself pressed into the mattress, those hands running _everywhere,_ and Havelock settling between his legs with a certain surety of purpose that was almost alarming. Some part of him, he realised, hadn’t expected to succeed – but he certainly wasn’t going to back out now, and he pulled Havelock’s head towards him, demanding more kisses. One of those clever hands grasped him unexpectedly and he arched his back at the intense sensation, then fell back onto the bed, breath hissing out at the sudden twist of pain that went through him.


	6. Chapter 6

“Your side,” Vetinari stated, before he could recover himself and explain.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly feeling almost as miserable as he had in his sickbed, and blinking back the tears that had sprung up in response to the sting, “It’s mostly healed but – “

 

“ – It still hurts if you move too much,” Havelock supplied, holding his arms pinned above his head, as if to stop him. That faint half-smile twitched again, but Rufus was worried now. The momentum was going again…he didn’t know why, but he was worried that if this, this _thing_ he’d started stopped at any point before it should do, before the point of no return, then he’d never get it back.

 

“I don’t think…I can do that much,” he admitted, frustrated beyond measure, then bewildered and a little hurt when Vetinari actually started _laughing._

 

“Are you actually trying to tell me, that you were _impatient_ and _impulsive,_ in coming here tonight?” he demanded, daring defiance, but there was an element of self-mockery in that Patrician’s raised-eyebrow stare.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Rufus admitted, through gritted teeth, pushing back against those hands clasping his own and discovering, predictably, that he couldn’t shift that steel grip. It was his day off tomorrow, dammit, and it wouldn’t be for another week. He couldn’t have left it that long.

 

“I am not sure that this is something that I should encourage,” Vetinari commented, pushing back, just slightly, but a clear warning. He stopped, looking rather helplessly up at Havelock, who leaned down slowly and kissed him thoughtfully. He felt a knot in his chest loosen slightly. “Good,” Havelock murmured against his lips, then broke off again. “Well then, we will just have to be sure you _don’t_ move too much.” The amused smile was back. “I am not going to be so foolish as to _order_ you to keep you still…but a certain _restraint_ would not go amiss.” For a second, as Vetinari’s gaze rested contemplatively on the silk sash of his dressing gown, crumpled on the floor, Rufus actually thought that was a double-entendre, and his breath quickened, as he wondered once again what exactly he’d let himself in for. But if the idea was there, it was apparently discarded as impractical.

 

Before Rufus could question what he intended, Havelock kissed him again, deep and long and demanding, finally releasing his grip and letting those questing hands wander in a curve down the side of his neck to trail fingernails lightly over his nipples – and pushing firmly in the centre of his chest when he threatened to arch his back again.

 

“Turn over, onto your good side,” Havelock murmured, and, trusting and dizzy with sensation, he complied, to be greeted with the reflection of himself in another long mirror on the wall opposite, flushed of face and blond-brown hair wildly tousled. There were lots of mirrors in the room, he realised, watching Havelock’s reflection move to lie parallel along his back, in a shadowy embrace. A distracted part of him noted that one could probably watch the outer door from every angle in the room, although that certainly wasn’t what Havelock was watching now, he thought, somewhat self-conscious. One cool hand touched, briefly, on the healed scar on his side, making his skin shiver, then circled round underneath him and against his chest, to pull him firmly against the hard body behind him, hold him fast. It was very nearly the same position Havelock had immobilised him in when he’d first come through the door, he realised, feeling a sudden shudder run through the body pressed against his own. Ice-blue eyes that held the ghost of warm light from the candle flickered back at him from the mirror, watching them both. Wisely, he neither questioned nor protested it, watching as well, almost hypnotised, as that dark head dipped, vampiric, to kiss and nip at the side of his neck…as those fingers toyed with his chest again. He felt himself harden anew, no longer abashed, not at the dark desire in those eyes, that answering hardness pressed against his buttocks.

 

Havelock’s hand finally, mercifully, drifted down his belly and firmly grasped his cock, and he strained against the hard grip around his body.

 

“Lie still,” Havelock said, in a low, commanding voice, “Do _not_ move,”

 

“Gods, don’t start that again,” he said, unthinkingly, suddenly reminded of when he was lying on the floor in the Oblong Office. Havelock chuckled, but there was a slight breathlessness to it that gratified him immensely. Rufus pushed back a little, impudently, impatiently, and it was Vetinari’s turn to have his breath sent out hissing between his teeth. With an urgent shifting of position, and letting go a moment, he parted Rufus’ leg to slip inbetween his thighs, a muffled noise escaping as he bit down on his neck again.

 

“Touch yourself,” he said, a rough tone to his normally smooth voice as he began moving back and forth between Rufus’ thighs. He watched in the mirror as Rufus complied, a little awkwardly at first, but emboldened by the increasing pace and Havelock’s urgent breaths against his shoulder. The arm around his chest tightened a little, holding him secure as Havelock joined their hands around his cock, fisting him demandingly.

 

“I – “ he began, losing the sentence in a moan and dropping his head back against Havelock’s shoulder, who kissed him bruisingly behind his ear, and nudged him forward again to face the mirror.

 

“Watch,” he demanded, his own eyes dilated as a predator’s. _Give me everything,_ they said, and, helpless, Rufus did, crying out as he finally spilled himself over their joined hands. With a final tightening of his arm that threatened to squeeze all the breath out of him, Havelock thrust hard, twice more between his sweat-slicked thighs, then came himself, pressing his head against Rufus’ shoulder at the last. He lay there, unmoving for a moment, both of them breathing heavily. The arm loosened into a languid caress again. Cautiously, Rufus began to move, starting to get uncomfortable – and surely, the arm beneath must be half-numb by now – but Havelock pulled him back suddenly, and, when those eyes snapped back to the mirror, they were as dark and dangerous as before.

 

“If you will come here and dare the edge of my knife,” he said, “I _will_ have all of you.”

 

“I know,” Rufus said, meeting that gaze steadily, if not entirely calmly, and thinking to himself that if Vetinari had really had any doubts as to that, he wouldn’t have got past the door.

 

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, breaking that locked mirror gaze, his mood shifting, quicksilver, as if it had never been, “In future, advance planning will avoid any…unnecessary alarm. Or I will come to you.” The arm had loosened again, and this time, Rufus was allowed to shift to lie on his back again as Havelock flexed some blood back into his fingers. He trailed one hand over the edge of the bed, blindly searching for his trousers and a pocket handkerchief to clean up the mess, not really wanting to move anymore.

 

“They’re on the other side,” Havelock said, leaning over and retrieving them. Rufus pulled out the handkerchief and proceeded to clear them (mostly himself) up, thinking irreverantly, _God, he doesn’t even lose track of someone else’s trousers when he’s fucking them._ Vetinari caught sight of his smile and quirked an eyebrow, but he just shook his head, and lay back down, cautiously resting his head against Havelock’s shoulder, not wanting to push the intimacy too far. They were silent for a time, whilst he wondered if he should go back to his own room, and if he could muster up the effort, and if his side would start complaining if he did. He wanted to pull the covers up, but if he did, he’d surely fall asleep.

 

“Do you know what I thought when I first met you?” Vetinari asked, at last. He should have known it would be an unexpected question.

 

“Was it: ‘he looks like a sensible man’?” Drumknott asked, dryly, and was rewarded by an amused smile.

 

“No. I thought: here is a man so ordinary that he has managed to come out the other side and reach extraordinary. I anticipated your trying to block the assassin, but you succeeded in surprising me, after all. Twice.”

 

“I still can’t quite believe you let me straight in,” he replied, stifling a yawn. Havelock smiled, the same lopsided smile he’d had when Rufus had thought he was dying.

 

“At a certain point it occurred to me that the only way I could get you to leave would be to ask you.” He pulled the covers up over them both himself. “Better you leave in the morning anyway. At this time it will look even more suspicious. Besides, it’s Octeday tomorrow.” _Oh good,_ thought Rufus, _I don’t have to move._ His eyes started drifting closed.

 

“Your attitude has changed since you first woke after your injury. How did you know?” Rufus prised his eyelids open again. He’d been hoping Vetinari wouldn’t notice that, or attribute it to his own astute observation. _Great, first the pre-coital knife play, now the post-coital interrogation, I suppose regular pillow talk was out of the question._ Well, nothing for it but the truth.

“Vimes noticed,” he said, too sleepy to explain more, and was startled by Havelock’s brief, surprised bark of laughter.

 

“And he _said_ something? But of course,” Vetinari murmured, cogs clearly spinning in his head, “Vimes goes home, tells his wife about his shocking day, and she immediately tells him to do something about it, or she will.” A small smile curved his lips. “It’s as well he did, for I suspect she would never have given me a moment’s peace otherwise. Perhaps I should reward him with something.” Rufus smiled, in spite of himself.

 

“He’d hate that, well, unless it was something he really wanted, and possibly not even then.”

 

“And you, Rufus? What do you want?” _Right now, I really want to damn well go to sleep._ He thought a moment.

 

“What everybody wants, I suppose,” he said, carefully, knowing he wouldn’t have to clarify: _For tomorrow to be like today._ Vetinari didn’t reply, but he did smile, a warmth in his eyes that Rufus fancied hadn’t been there before, then leaned over and kissed him once more, dark and long, and blew out the candle.

 

** Epilogue **

 

It so happened that Drumknott had retreated briefly to his secondary office to collate some papers when Vimes had his appointment with the Patrician, and so it was only on his way out that he met him.

 

“Mr Drumknott,” Vimes said, acknowledging him by name for the first time since he’d known him, although the usual curt nod was there too.

 

“Commander, I trust your meeting went well?” he asked smoothly.

 

“Fine,” Vimes growled, glancing sidelong back at the Oblong Office. “I was just telling his Lordship that we’ve rounded up the ringleader of the group that sent that assassin, so there won’t be any more trouble from that quarter.” He glanced back towards the Patrician again, looking decidedly shifty. Drumknott burned with curiosity.

 

“That’s excellent news,” he said, without thinking. He’d actually forgotten all about the ongoing investigation into that business.

 

“Yes, well, I’d best be going,” Vimes said. He glanced once more between Drumknott and to where Vetinari was just visible sitting at his desk in the Oblong Office, then jammed his helmet on his head and stomped off. Rufus wandered back into the Oblong Office with his stack of papers. Vetinari had left some of them on his tertiary desk the other night, and the flash of approval he saw in the Patrician’s eyes as he realised Rufus had already anticipated bringing them in this morning was extremely satisfying.

 

“His Grace the Duke seemed rather…discomfited,” he ventured to say.

 

“I can’t imagine why,” Vetinari replied, blandly, “I’m sure I was smiling the whole time.”


End file.
